Fractured

by T. C. Edge

  23

  Brie

  I stare out through the small hole in the wall of my cell, trying to see through the collection of carriages and transports parked nearby. After falling into a routine of stopping every eight or so hours, this particular break came as quite unexpected. The last time we stopped can't have been more than three or four hours ago, during the dead of night. This is very much against the pattern I have come to expect.

  Outside, a fresh morning has bloomed, bringing with it a cloudless blue sky. Yet, in the distance, I sense the impression of smoke. Faint trails lift into the air, swirling as they disperse. And through a tiny gap between nearby carriages, I think I can see the source. Not far away, perhaps a few hundred metres, I see signs of a village. It is the first proper indication of life since we left. It must mean we have arrived upon the Fringe.

  "Anything?" I hear Marcus say behind me.

  I draw back from the hole in the wall and turn to look into his cell. Clinging to the window ledge, he peeks through the bars, before dropping back down.

  "I can see smoke," I say. "Looks like a village is burning nearby."

  He nods. "I can see it too. Just about. What do you think's happening?"

  I shrug and shake my head. "Could be anything, I guess. They've probably stopped to find out what's going on."

  I return my eyes to the hole, straining to see ahead. I'm certain I catch a glimpse, through the hazy morning air, of colourful robes in the distance, set beside figures dressed in black. I focus hard and narrow my gaze, and as I do, I'm sure I see the figure of my grandfather out there too...

  A sudden stamp of soldiers passes by, blocking off my view completely. I curse under my breath as they march past and draw quickly back for fear of being spotted. By the time I look again, the sight of the small gathering in the distance has moved on, stepping out across the plains towards the smouldering village.

  I sit back again, sighing.

  "What is it?" Marcus asks me. He steps up to the bars of his cell to get a better look at me. "Are you speaking with your brother again?"

  I shake my head. Marcus, by now, is well caught up with my interaction with Zander during sunset last night. He knows, too, of what I saw before I returned to our carriage; my grandfather enjoying an evening stroll with the Overseer, before stepping aboard his new personal chariot, Black Thunder.

  "Drugs haven't worn off yet," I say to him. "It's...my grandfather. I'm sure I saw him again."

  "I see," he says sombrely. "You shouldn't worry about that, Brie. If he's under the control of the Overseer again, then there's nothing we can do about that. I...I know he's your grandfather, but..."

  "But he isn't anymore, is he," I say, sighing out the words. "He never really was, I guess." I shake my head and draw a wry smile. "After everything that's happened, he's back to how he was. I just know it, Marc. The Overseer's made him the same cold, callous Savant again. He's stripped him of all those memories that changed him."

  "Well," Marcus says, "does it...even matter?"

  I turn to look at him. His expression holds a great deal of weight. It's the face of a man who has enough on his plate to worry about, as I do, without sparing too much thought for an old foe like Artemis Cromwell.

  "We have...bigger things to worry about, Brie," he goes on, his words soft. "Your grandfather is probably just the first of us to fall. I'm sure we'll be next. We know just what these people can do." He draws a breath, and turns his eyes down. "We may not be ourselves for much longer. I just want to sit, and know what it means to be Neoroman, before they take that from me." He looks up again, the carriage deathly silent. "Because they will, Brie," he says. "I know that now. I'll either join them, or be killed. I don't see that there's another way."

  "Marc," I say, standing and moving to the bars. "What is this attitude. Come on, it's you! Mr positive. You've never been this dour."

  "I've never been in this situation, Brie," he says. "I like to be positive, yes, but I can be pragmatic, and realistic, too. I know what happens to prisoners of war. Since they haven't killed me already, I imagine they want to use me, just the same as you. I fear we'll both be forced to do terrible things."

  "I won't let that happen, Marc," I say. "I overcame them once. I...I can do it again."

  He smiles at me, looking at me fondly for an extended moment. "I'm sure you'll try," he whispers. "But...this is too big for even you, Brie. You've seen the Overseer's confidence. They have found something special in you. You can see it in his face. You're something they've been searching for for a long time. And me...well, I guess I'll make a decent sword to add to their ranks."

  "And Ares?" I ask. "All the Neoroman warriors? You don't have any faith in them?" I look at him directly through the bar to our cells. "They're coming for us, Marc. They're coming to destroy the Prime. Have you ever known your people to fail?"

  He draws a breath, pondering my words. They seem to give him something, a shred of lost hope returning to his face. "My people don't fail," he says eventually, that Neoroman belligerence and ironclad confidence rising once more. "But I don't think they've faced anything like this before either. Olympus...it's known in Neorome. It's a place none of our people have ever ventured to, half considered myth by many."

  "Yeah, and before I knew about you, I'd have thought that Neorome was the same," I say. "When I visited your city, I spent the entire time with my mouth hanging open, Marcus. It's a staggering, magical place. Olympus is just another. There's no myth to it, no divine protection or purpose. It's just another city for your people to overcome. Isn't that what you do best?"

  "We are...reasonably well practiced at it," he says, managing to lift a subtle grin. "It just depends if our army is actually coming. We can't know that, Brie."

  "We know it," I say, nodding resolutely. "I heard whispers again from Zander before Bull gave us our last dose. They were...hard to properly hear, but I'm sure he said he spoke with Kira. We have confirmation, Marc. The Neoroman army are following."

  He frowns. "You didn't mention this before?" he says.

  "You were sleeping," I say. "And I wanted to speak with Zander again before I mentioned it. To clarify everything. But, I'm sure of it. We're not alone up here. We have the finest warriors in the world on our side."

  "Our side?" Marcus asks. "Perhaps not for long. Perhaps, soon, we will consider them the enemy."

  I direct a firm gaze at him, berating him for holding such an attitude. "Marc..." I say.

  "I know," I breathes. "Don't be so negative." He nods, and broadens his posture. "You're right. I just want out of this damn cage!"

  "Won't be long now, I don't think," I say. "We can't be far away."

  Outside, a flurry of additional activity takes place, drawing my eye back to the hole in the wall. I notice the small leadership group returning from the plains. They have soldiers with them, who appear to have gathered a few of the local villagers to be added to the throng.

  "I think they're taking people for questioning," I say, looking out.

  A large figure passes right by as I speak. I draw back and hear the inimitable stamp and plod of Bull outside as the door unlocks and the surly half-Brute-Dasher hybrid steps in. An additional wave of light pours through the opening as he marches towards us. I get a brief look outside as the convoy begins to gather up once more to move off.

  "What's going on out there?" I find myself asking, as I step up to the bars. Marc does the same in his cell. We have been extremely good in taking our drugs without causing complaint. It has caused even Bull to ease up a little, his trust in our compliance strengthening as the days have gone on.

  He steps to my cell and hands me my drugs. "Not my place to know," he grunts to me, watching closely as I swallow, before performing his customary inspection of my mouth.

  He marches over to Marcus to perform the same routine.

  "I can see something burning," I say. "A village, I think? Are we on the Fringe?"

  He glances over at me. "We're in the southern re
aches," he confirms with a begrudging grunt. "There's some problem in a local village. Not uncommon here. Could be a raiding party from beyond our borders."

  "That happens a lot?" asks Marcus, as he swallows and opens his mouth up wide.

  Bull nods as he looks inside. "The Fringe is vast. Very difficult to police it all. Villages near to the southern border come under attack occasionally."

  "Will Kovas send people out to find the raiders?" I ask.

  Bull looks over to me as he steps away from Marcus's cell. "At a time like this, probably not worth it. Might be something else anyway. I've heard rumours of rebellion."

  "Rebellion?" I ask, hugely intrigued, though trying to sound not to be. Bull won't respond well if I show much interest. He's only willing to answer questions when they're posed in a more disinterested, idle manner. "As in, rebellion on the Fringe?"

  "Just rumours," he grunts. "Happens sometimes, localised to a village or two, mostly in the south. The Heralds usually put an end to it pretty quickly."

  "So it's never widespread?" asks Marcus. "Across the entire Fringe?"

  "Ha!" Bull huffs. "No, never. There are hundreds of towns and villages here. Prime knows how many people. Issues are few, and minor. We run a tight ship here."

  "Hmmmm, loosened during war, though, I assume," I say, thinking to myself. "Not so easy policing your lands when half your army are missing."

  "Plenty left to deal with Fringe-rats," grunts Bull. "We got thousands left in the city and beyond. The Fringers are weak and powerless. If they rebel, they'd be crushed in days."

  He stamps away at that, puffing in his usual way. He appears slightly annoyed with himself to have given so much away, though really it shouldn't matter. I'm sure we'll learn what's been happening soon enough.

  As the convoy begins to move off once more, I find myself glued to the hole in the wall, splitting my time as I look out on the vast plains, and turning to speak with Marcus as we further discuss what we've heard.

  It isn't overly surprising to hear that there are thousands of soldiers remaining here, yet I cannot find myself too distressed by the news. Many of the soldiers we encountered within the Olympian army, after all, were fairly weak and inexperienced. Should a full Neoroman army march all the way here, I don't see that the Olympians will be able to challenge them in open combat.

  "They won't," Marcus says to me as I make the point. "They'll hide behind their walls, and try to outlast us. Our Neoroman army is formidable. If the Emperor has managed to secure thousands to lend their aid, then the Olympians would need several times that to offer a challenge in open combat."

  I nod. "It would become a war of attrition," I say. "I imagine that favours the home side."

  "Always," Marcus says. "They will have great stocks of food to live off, possibly for years. We will not have such provisions. Hopefully, these many villages of the Fringe that Bull mentioned will help."

  "You think they'd lend aid?" I ask.

  He looks at me with a frown. "That isn't what I mean," he says. "In war, it's normal to raid supporting towns and villages to secure food and other provisions for your army. It isn't about lending aid, Brie. It's about the invading army taking what they need."

  "And the Fringers themselves?" I ask, not much liking the idea, though understanding that it is the reality of war. "What would they eat if everything they have is taken?"

  "It depends on the invading force and the context of the war itself," Marcus says. "In most cases, the needs of the common people are often considered secondary. The invading army will take what they require, and the commoners will have to live off whatever is left."

  "But, that isn't what will happen here," I say. "Our leaders are good people. They will be coming to liberate the Fringe, not starve them to death."

  "I agree," Marcus nods. "There should be plenty to go around, I'd imagine. If the Fringe is as vast as we're hearing, that is. And the Emperor will bring along provisions himself to last for some time. I doubt it will become an issue."

  I turn again to look outside, my eye drawn off as we progress through the open lands of the Fringe at some pace. Away in the distance, set within a shallow valley, I see a much larger town than what I'd seen before. I narrow my gaze and, through glimpses between other travelling cars, I'm sure I see soldiers moving in towards it, speeding in quickly with weapons raised aloft.

  It is, it would appear, merely the tip of the iceberg. As the minutes turn to hours, both Marcus and I note the sight of other burning villages, other villages under attack. Through the hole in the wall of my cell, and the barred window in his, we pass on reports of what appears to be a land under siege.

  Under siege, it would seem, from its very own people.

  "Maybe Bull's right about rebellion," I say. "Maybe the Fringers have had enough."

  "Maybe," says Marcus. I see him looking out of his window again, straining to see into the distance. "Or it could be something else."

  He drops down and turns to me again. "What?" I ask.

  "I see wagons and carts moving out of a town not far away," he tells me. "They might be bringing as many supplies as they can to Olympus. And...destroying the rest."

  "To deny us?" I say. "Stop us finding supplies for ourselves?"

  "Indeed. And, if they have read us well enough, perhaps adding an additional distraction. They may have recognised our compassion for common people. They may believe that we will make sure to help the Fringers during their time of need."

  "So they'd let their own people suffer and starve, just to distract us during a war?" I shake my head, disgusted by the idea. "These are the people who supply them. How can they just cut ties with them as soon as the going gets tough?"

  "Because, Brie, they are immoral and corrupt. It is the very reason why we come to liberate these lands. It seems that our leaders, and our armies, have a great task on their hands."

  Oh, it seems that way, I think. And so, perhaps, do I...

  And as we continue on our journey through the Fringe, I begin to notice just what Marcus told me. Wagons, carts, and carriages, dotting the distance. All travelling in the same direction.

  All travelling north.

  24

  Kira

  "Do we engage, Ares?" I ask. "Do we try to help?"

  Our two jeeps slow as we pass nearby a burning village, one of several we have seen already in our pursuit of the convoy. The last few hours, since the sun rose, has painted the lands of the Fringe in a picture of brutality and suffering. It appears, at first glance, as though the Children of the Prime are storming their own lands, taking supplies and, from what we can gather, burning the rest. The sight of wagons and other transports, laded down with provisions, all heading in the same direction of the convoy itself and, in many cases, joining their ranks, has told us all we need to know.

  I see Ares's lips pull back a little, showing his teeth. He stares towards the village - the closest we've been to - as a group of perhaps thirty soldiers begin moving back out onto the plains towards a group of carriages nearby. A couple, I see, are fully stocked with whatever supplies they have taken. Whatever is left has been set aflame, much of the village now burning bright under the late morning sun, belching black fumes into the cloudless blue sky.

  The screams and wails of agony are clear, even to those without enhanced hearing. From our vantage a couple of hundred metres away, I can perceive the individual screams of torment and terror, smell the burning of buildings, and bodies, alike.

  And inside me, a stirring of hate occurs. This is all so very familiar. Whatever Amber or Perses might say about the 'good people of Olympus', there is a great sickness here in these lands. A sickness that spreads from its heart.

  From Olympus itself.

  From the Prime.

  "We strike immediately," Ares says finally, one eye dancing off to the distance ahead. The convoy has now stretched a considerable lead, the cover here too insufficient for us to pursue too closely. Yes, we will be spotted, if we haven't already, but
getting too close to a juggernaut of that size isn't sensible right now. "We will continue onwards once we've dealt with them," he continues. "Max, tell the others. The enemy haven't spotted us yet. Let's kill them before they do."

  Max nods and slips from the car, speeding to the one behind. The rest of us step out, joining the six soldiers in the following jeep. We gather into a small unit, searching forward as the enemy troop of thirty moves towards their mini-convoy, their backs to us as they go.

  My immediate impression is that they're simple soldiers; powered, yes, but limited in what they can do. If there was a decent Bat among them, they'd have heard us by now. Any Hawk worth her salt would have caught us in her peripheral vision.

  "Take prisoners," Ares says, turning to look at us. "Two or three will do. Wipe out the rest."

  Dressed in sleeker versions of their usual Neoroman armour - slightly more muted in colour and more practical from a stealth standpoint - the soldiers nod to their commander and set their sights on the enemy. And then, with Ares leading, we move off as a flash, all dozen of us speeding straight for the Olympian soldiers like a raging swarm of death incarnate.

  The fight isn't even much of a fight. I imagine Ares could have done it alone without much trouble. Using blades, long and short, we slice immediately through all but three of the enemy, each of us getting to make a kill or two. Within less than a minute, two dozen bodies lie upon the dry dirt outside of the village, their blood soaking into the soil, nourishing the earth beneath.

  The remaining three, swiftly tied, crouch on bended knee ahead of our leader, Ares standing grand and imposing before them. He eyes them slowly, adopting the frightening figure that would make most men quiver, before speaking to them with that great thunder-like voice of his, rumbling out in threatening form.

  "What were your orders here?" he asks, intensely.

  The men shiver and shake. All three, heads bowed, struggle to form words at first. One, only, has the courage to lift his gaze and look Ares in the eye. His voice, like his body, trembles as he answers.